


Lips Stained Red

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He should turn around, stumble back inside, back up the stairs, give himself a few hours more sleep before returning to deal with the mess of the day.But then he’s never been very good at doing what he should."Jaskier makes the mistake of getting up early one morning. That and having a conscience, leading him into a spot of trouble yet again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 247





	Lips Stained Red

When Jaskier stumbles out of a halfway run-down inn into the grey of early morning light, sleep still crusting his eyes, he has no intention of finding a fight. His focus is breakfast, for himself and Roach, then find a worthy distraction for the day. Something to stop him worrying about the fact Geralt wasn’t back yet.

Something to stop him thinking about the fact Geralt was supposed to be back yesterday evening. Stop replaying the Witcher’s calm and altogether unremarkable parting words over and over in his head-

The scream is sharp, piercing through the early morning fog, concerningly loud and concerningly close. Fuck.

He should turn around, stumble back inside, back up the stairs, give himself a few hours more sleep before returning to deal with the mess of the day.

But then he’s never been very good at doing what he should

A second cry leads him round the side of the inn, into a dim lit alleyway, the tall buildings lining the edges cutting out most of the weak sunlight, only just starting to stream into the sky. 

He trails down it wearily, not nearly as awake as he would like to be.

Round another corner, to the back of the building, it’s there he finds them.

Four men, well, three and the innkeeper. A bloody and beaten innkeeper.

There was blood dripping from a split in the side of the man’s head, eyes cloudy and unfocused, arm up in defence-

He should probably leave. 

He watches one of the men hoist up a thick wooden bat, swing it round and bring it down against the Innkeeper’s head. Watches the man’s body crumple to the ground from the weight of the blow.

He should definitely leave

But…

The man had been kind, letting them in for less than adequate coin, accepting Geralt’s word that the rest would come after Geralt received payment for a finished job.

It shouldn’t matter. He should just leave.

The innkeeper groans, curls an arm over his head as his attacker lifts the bat once more.

Fuck.

“Um, hello- hello there.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to achieve with the words, provide a distraction? Draw their attention for a moment if nothing else. Part of him clings to a slim and desperate hope he might be able to choose the right words to defuse the situation

It works in part.

In that one of the men, thankfully unarmed, turns their attention away from the curled body.

Towards Jaskier.

Shit. 

As the concerningly large man steps towards him he has just enough time to realise this may have been a… mistake.

“Right, now, um hello, if we could just slow down for a moment-”

The man swings, and he thanks the gods for instincts, driving him forward. He ducks around the fist, throwing himself to the side as best he can, somehow avoiding the first blow.

“Now I’m sure if we just-”

The man swings again, making contact this time, a fist slammed into his head, ears stinging. He gasps at the blow, tries to shake off the ringing.

He stumbles back, trying to give himself a second to let his jostled brain settle. Shit.

Another blow, he manages to half block this one, arm knocking away the worst of the blow, gods his head hurts. Clearly attempts at conversation would get him nowhere. 

He takes a breath, steps forward and swings back. Smashes a fist into the fucker’s neck, feels a hand smash into flesh, bones protesting at the move. 

A worthy injury, the man stumbles back, choking, momentarily dazed if nothing else.

Fingers flex, ready for a second hit. Wondering what damage he could do if he manages to hit the same spot twice.

Not that he gets the chance to find out.

An arm wraps around his neck, yanking him back, cutting off the cry half formed in his throat.

He struggles, feet skidding against the ground, arms reaching up to tug uselessly on the tight and crushing weight around his neck, nails digging in, in a desperate attempt to force release. A soft chuckle rings in his ear, the man clearly certain of his inability to get away.

So, he throws a hand backwards, fingers scrabbling against the man’s face, aiming high to miss sharp and pointed teeth. A thumb finds an eye socket, pressing in hard. He feels something shift, something move under his thumb, giving way under the pressing weight.

The man screams.

Good.

The arm loosens around his neck, not a full release, but certainly weakened. He can work with that. 

He curls his thumb, feeling the eyeball shift in response, revelling in the resulting scream. This proves enough, the arm around his throat dropping away.

He tips forward, deciding to go with the movement and sends himself sailing into the first asshole. It results in a heavy collision, a move he quickly regrets, realising that unlike him his attackers are built like a brick wall. 

He feels his nose burst, caught between the rest of him and the bastard’s chest, blood pouring out and splattering across the man’s shirt.

He gags, yanking back, pressing a hand against the flow. Feels hot blood drip out between his fingers, splattering down his chin, warm and wet.

Fuck.

He splutters as it drips against his lips, a mist of blood droplets scattering into the air. The man laughs at the sound, fucker. 

So, he does the only thing he can think of, he smashes his forehead into the man’s face. Feels the man’s nose crumple in turn. Good.

The man cries out, a wonderous sound. He presses on, drives a knee up, directly into the man’s groin. Feels the man crumple against him, half bent over and gasping for breath.

He drives the knee up again, earning a weak sob from the man.

He steps back, lets the man crumble to his knees.

Just in time to notice the heavy hat swinging at his head. He finches, head shifted to the side, arm reaching up to block the blow. 

He feels the whack vibrate through his arm, shaking it to the bone. Fuck does that hurt.

Still, he curls an arm around the wood, and _yanks_. 

And then the man yanks back.

Rough wood tears through the flesh of his hand, ripping a cracked scream from his lips.

But he does not let go.

He yanks back again. Lets himself become so focused on the piece of wood, on tugging it free, that he doesn’t notice the fist until it smashes into his face.

His already aching nose explodes once more in pain, his grip drops, bat slid easily out of his hand as he buckles over, clutching his aching and agonising face.

He hears the fucker in front of him step forward, boot scuffing against the rough cobblestones.

He tries not to panic, feeling his heart pick up, blood pumping through his body.

He does his best to straighten up. Square up. Stare down his opponent, prepare himself for the next hit.

The man laughs at that, lazily twirling the bat, clearly certain he has gained the higher ground. The man moves forward slowly, taking his time with the approach. 

He swallows. Feels the burn of hot blood trickle down his throat, soft and silky. Does his best not to share his fear. Tires not to flinch when the fucker takes another step towards him.

The last thing he expects is for the bastard to freeze, muscles seemingly locking in place. The man blanches, face draining of blood. His eyes focus on a spot just behind behind Jaskier, a tremble sliding into his fingers.

In the stillness he finally notices it, the sound of soft foot fall from behind him, someone, _something_ , moving towards him.

He can’t stop a shiver when a wave of fear momentarily floods over him at the sound, trying not to panic further, debating whether he should risk looking behind him.

He feels the presence behind him. The heat of another body, the quiet huff of a breath- a… possibly familiar breath of a sound.

His attacker drops the bat, stumbling over his feet to back up, scrambling down the alleyway.

He hears a decidedly familiar huff from behind him, feeling the hot breath on the back of his head.

He tilts his head back, half turning, not surprised to see the familiar face of the Witcher.

“Hello,” the word comes out half gurgled, mouth slick with blood, “I didn’t know you were in the area.”

Geralt startles at that, a frown painting his face.

He snorts at the response, it’s not his fault, he may be concussed, he really shouldn’t be blamed for whatever words choose to stumble free from his lips right now. Sticky, syrupy words, slowly spilling free.

Geralt’s frown deepens, taking a step back to give himself room to spin Jaskier the rest of the way round by the shoulders. Geralt presses a hand to Jaskier’s forehead, peels up one of the bard’s eyelids as wide as it will go, studying his pupils.

He tugs back from the touch, he is fine. He will be fine. He just needs a few minutes for his head to stop spinning.

Geralt hesitates, hand left hovering in the air, uncertainty showing plain on his face, “are you okay?”

He snorts, freezing in horror at the jet of blood which pours free, some of it splatters onto Geralt. He groans, shoves a sleeve against his nose in a desperate hope to at least somewhat stem the flow of blood still trickling free from it.

Spits out an, “I’m fine,” words muffled and mushy.

Geralt rises an eyebrow, staring at him closely, “ _Jaskier_ ,” the word had the hint of a warning in it, a threat of what would happen if he lies about how he is, “how are you?”

He groans, eyes squeezed shut for a moment as he tries to take note of his current state. Work out the honest answer to the question. Cracks his neck, rolls sore shoulders, feeling them click back into place.

“ ‘m okay… think my nose is broken though.”

Geralt chuckles at that, “judging from the blood I’d be more surprised if it wasn’t.”

He groans again, daring a look down at himself, doublet and undershirt both stained in a splattering of red. Bright droplets already soaked in deep to expensive fabric, not the ideal outcome he wanted.

“…bollocks.”

Geralt huffs at that, the edge of amusement playing at his lips, well hidden under layers of irritation, unimpressed to see Jaskier more concerned with the state of his shirt than himself. “It’s had worse.”

He splutters, “this was new Geralt! I hadn’t even got the chance to perform in it yet.”

Geralt offers an almost smile at that, “you’re a menace,” he says softly, lacking any true bite.

“ _I’m_ a menace-”

“I leave you alone for half a day and look what you get into.”

“Hey, now- this wasn’t my fault, what was I supposed to do, leave an innocent man to die-”

He freezes at that, spins at the sudden thought of the innkeeper, realising that throughout the mess of a fight he had managed to completely forget about the man. Breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the man propped up against the side of the building, seemingly still breathing. Less relieving is the notably glossy stare in his eye, blood still sluggishly trickling down his face.

“Hmm, he is not okay.” Geralt offers helpfully over his shoulder.

“Yes, I can see that, thank you.”

“Someone should get him to a healer.”

At that he turns and levels Geralt with a meaningful stare, “someone should.”

“… it’s not my job.”

The Witcher grumbles, as he fusses over the innkeeper, checking the man is conscious, trying to coax… or possibly scare, coherent words out of him. Geralt pretends not to care, pretends this entire thing is beneath him, not something he does, as he always does when helping someone. But Jaskier has seen it all more than enough times to know it’s all an act.

The innkeeper proves more alive than expected, waving off most of the help, not letting them do much more than lift the man to his feet, help carry him back into the inn, half dumped behind the bar, left to be someone else’s problem.

Likely his wife’s, the poor woman having just woken up, clearly terrified by her poor husband’s current appearance. 

She bustles them out, swings the inn door shut with a determinative slam, leaving the two of them blinking in the bright morning light.

He stretches, rolls tired shoulders, and offers a tired sigh to the day, “well now that was not the best start to the day,”

Geralt snorts, turning to look at him properly once again. The Witcher seems to still for a second, hesitating for a moment, an unsure hand suddenly moving to wipe clean a spot on Jaskier’s cheek. A wasted effort, given the thick layer of blood trailing down from his nose, lips stained a vibrant red.

Geralt hums, examining the smear of red on his fingers, “not the worst start either.”

He hums back, an uncomfortable shiver flickering down his spine, “yea… it could have been much worse, if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

Geralt frowns slightly at that, “that’s not… you would have delt with it.”

He raises an eyebrow in response, “careful Geralt, that’s almost a compliment.”

Geralt smiles at the words, offering him a comfortable, if a touch painful, pat on the shoulder, “as close as you’ll get to one.”

He laughs back, wincing at the ache of his face, the crack of half dried blood painting his face, some still sluggishly trickling down his chin, uncomfortable and sticky.

Geralt snorts at the sight, uselessly wiping a smear of blood from the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, “Gods, You’re a mess.”

He hums at the touch, head tilted back, soaking in the sunlight, warm and comfortable despite the aching pain in his face, nose decidedly broken, “mmm, I’ll tidy up once we can get back into the room.” He sighs, scrunches his nose as best he can, trying to assess the damage, “you might need to take over earning our coin for a few weeks, I don’t know how much I’ll be bringing in with my pretty face looking like this.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “what makes you think I’ll spend my coin covering for your mistakes bard?”

He doesn’t bother responding to the question, knowing it’s not a real threat. That Geralt may complain and moan as much as he wants, but at the end of the day he will do his best to cover everything they need until Jaskier’s face heals.

Instead he tilts, knocking their shoulders together comfortably, an acknowledgement that he understands the jest. Geralt nudges back, solid and secure.

He sighs at the contact, it truly had been an unusual start to a day, and the gods only know he had had better.

But perhaps it wasn’t the worst it could have been.

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a therapeutic mess of writing, - thanks so much for reading-


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